


Instinctively

by Red



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Were-Creatures, Werewolf John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know how sometimes you're looking at your old private listings of all your meme fills to find the link to a somewhat decent story, and you see that there is WEREWOLF FANFICTION in there and you totally don't remember writing it but there it is, and you know it was you? Yeah. That would be this. </p><p>John is a werewolf. So is Lestrade. End of story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When he had first met John Watson, Sherlock was immediately aware of the man's condition. There was a very real reason for this Dr. Watson to despair of finding a tolerant flatmate, more than frequent nightmares and occasional dark moods. 

The real reason was more lunar in nature. 

Many humans were obtuse about these matters, but for Sherlock, it was hardly a difficult deduction. Perhaps John would have thought to question his easy familiarity with all things lycanthropic in those first days--the sub-species was well-documented, but rare enough that most humans would never meet one--had John not immediately had another werewolf running up those seventeen steps, reporting a fourth suicide. 

The thought of associating with a werewolf was still considered, in most human circles, quite mad. Associating with an urban, more-or-less lone werewolf, more so. 

Two werewolves, both without a pack, roaming about London? It was the sort of thing "pro-human" horror rag writers had wet dreams about. 

For Sherlock, it couldn't work out better. London was a great deal of territory for a solitary wolf, and Lestrade always had the most deplorably predictable work ethic. He'd spend all night on the full moon, trying to sniff out a month's worth of stale leads for the Met, and growling some of the less civil creatures out off the street. Having a spare wolf about--one with a sense of duty, perfectly upstanding--was practical. 

A few days before the first full moon he spent at Baker Street, Sherlock convinced John of this, talked him into forgoing the usual urban-wolf habit of locking yourself indoors. The day before, John and Lestrade--both looking a bit haggard for the impending change--met up and discussed territory like perfect gentlemen. 

Sherlock had almost been disappointed. Lycanthropic territory disputes were said to be so exciting, and watching two men at a kitchen table, drawing out a map like they were deciding the placement of a polling station was anticlimactic. 

And so the night of the full moon remained as tedious as any other. Sometimes he stayed in, waiting for the sound of John tiredly scratching at the door. Sometimes he went out to investigate a case, John padding beside him, vigilant and tawny-furred. And when he realized one night that it had been ages since he'd seen Lestrade in wolf form, Sherlock convinced himself there just hadn't been anything interesting on that side of the map. He'd read of the tendency of lone wolves to make packs from humans, particularly when said humans were intimately acquainted--as he and John had been since that ordeal at the pool. He was also familiar with the reports on violent territoriality among werewolves, territoriality that was often extended to human pack members. Nevertheless, Sherlock was certain that the rules of werewolf society--like those of human society--did not apply to him. 

Seeing Lestrade as a wolf had been an accident to begin with. When he first became aware of Lestrade's condition years ago, he had become unforgivably complacent. For some reason, he had considered himself safe from interference when accessing illicit substances during the full moon.   
There was little more embarrassing than having your supplier chased off and being chaperoned home by a large wolf. He had not entirely ruled out Mycroft's hand in it all. 

In retrospect, seeing Lestrade as a wolf now--for the first time in over a year--was also quite avoidable. It wasn't that Sherlock was ignorant to the phases of the moon, or the changes he often witnessed in John. John always fussed over him excessively, it was impossible to overlook. 

There was an intriguing break-in--nothing stolen, but a number of dictionaries left behind, oddly highlighted. Ciphers did not generally call for a Browning or for a fearsome set of canines, so he did not bother notifying John. Some hours later, he discovered four things. 

First, to prove this was not all a considerable waste of his intellect, it was going to be necessary to stop by the nearest twenty-four hour laundrette and hope for some sign of blackmail. 

Second, it was nightfall.

Third, he was well within the borders of Lestrade's territory.

And Lestrade was currently watching him from the fire escape, where Sherlock had leveraged himself in the flat. Lestrade was considerably more... furry... than when Sherlock had seen him last. 

"Damn," Sherlock muttered. Lestrade had never given cause for concern when in wolf form before, but Sherlock did not doubt that he smelled a bit more "Other Pack" than in the past. He stood cautiously. Wolf etiquette did not concern him. But he was unnerved that Lestrade had approached him so soundlessly, and he did not imagine that John would be pleased if he came home with less fingers than when he left. Keeping his eyes down, he tried to remember the parts of wolf socialization he had not dismissed as useless trivia. 

Not all wolves would recall their human names when spoken to, but Sherlock had seen John and Lestrade show signs of response when he addressed them. He only hoped now this was not anthropomorphism on his part. 

"Lestrade," he began. It sounded a little pathetic--wolves preferred an ordered maintenance of roles, after all--so he continued in his usual tone. "It's kind of you to stop by, but this insistence upon monitoring my sobriety is unnecessary." He kept looking at the floor, resolutely. 

There was a creaking noise as Lestrade leveraged himself in the window. A heavier wolf than John, Sherlock noted. The conservation of mass held true for werewolves. 

Sherlock was still, keeping the wolf in his peripheral vision. 

"I'm certain Mycroft knows the howl for 'sod off,' if he's been pressuring you." 

The dark shape came closer. There was no way to run from a werewolf, even if you weren't stuck in a flat with one between you and the nearest exit. There was also little way to subdue one without a gun. Silver bullets were merely the stuff of folktales, but if you were attempting to take down a werewolf, you would do best to obtain a large game rifle.

It was rather telling that the only gun Sherlock had ever handled belonged to a wolf. 

"Lestrade," Sherlock said again, holding his ground, considering what was possible for self-defense. John had taught him a few things. Don't back away. Like sharks, aim for the nose. When he or she is down, run for shelter. Preferably shelter that is resistant to brute strength and requires opposable thumbs to access. 

"This is not the time to be dense. Lestrade, it's me, Sherlock." He felt as if he was speaking nonsense, but John had said something about voice being familiar when in wolf state. 

The wolf was stalking closer. "Do I honestly look like a threat to you? Well, perhaps I'd be a threat to your intelligence, but as you haven't any to speak of--"

A noise interrupted him, a sharp huff of breath. 

Sherlock looked up. 

There were a few parts of the lycanthrope language Sherlock had learned early on. Lestrade had made this noise enough, and now Sherlock heard it regularly from John. 

Wolves can't laugh or call you an idiot properly, but they can do an admirable job conveying both with one sound.

Lestrade--Sherlock had heard his wolf-name once, but like John's, it was impossible to transcribe or recreate with a human larynx--was cocking his head up at Sherlock, all but wagging his tail. Sherlock made a note to steal Lestrade's wallet and keys along with his badge, next time the man was wearing trousers. 

"Yes, this is all very amusing. Thank you, Lestrade." He bent to retrieve one of the dictionaries. Lestrade had started nosing it curiously, and Sherlock had never claimed to be above a little pettiness. The wolf growled at him, but there was no heat behind it. It was the sort of growl, Sherlock thought, that a wolf would make at a pup. 

Aggravating beast. He could at least make himself useful. Smell out the nearest coin-operated clothes drier. Bite Anderson. Eat Mycroft's umbrella. 

Eat Mycroft. 

Anything was better than sitting there, looking smug, though that was rather a feat for an overgrown dog. On his mobile already, Sherlock made a quick search and started for the window. The wolf whined behind him, a sort of irritated, questioning sound. 

John whined that way enough for Sherlock to know what that meant, too. 

Glancing back at Lestrade, he smirked. "Come along, Lestrade. With any luck, blackmailers don't take a holiday on the full moon."


	2. Chapter 2

Eight blocks and an interview with a bewildered attendant later, it was clear the night had merely been a useless exercise of his knowledge in code-breaking. Spurned lovers, communicating in cipher, the older one getting the wrong address when the other moved. How such clever code-writers could be so completely dense was one of life's great mysteries, Sherlock rued. 

Not a blackmailer for miles. Depressing. 

Walking out of the laundrette, Sherlock turned down an alley. He was aware, this time, of the exact moment Lestrade padded up behind him. 

Disquieting, how much the conclusion of this case troubled him. He never allowed sentiment to complicate his work. Mere months ago, he would have been able to enjoy the cipher as an interesting puzzle; an interruption from the countless hours of tedium which comprised one's daily life. Now, walking dark alleys and side-streets toward Baker Street, his mind turned constantly to the fact that the wolf beside him was a bit too broad, too tall, too dark-furred. Not his, his brain supplied, and he nearly laughed. 

Now he was descending into this pack madness. 

The night was pleasant enough, however; and at the pace they were walking, they were not all too far from the borders Lestrade and John had penciled out. There was something in Lestrade's manner--concern, protectiveness, he was not certain--which made hailing a cab and leaving the wolf to his monthly work quite out of the question. Lestrade may not be John, but he was not an unfamiliar wolf. Step-pack, perhaps, if wolves had such a concept. Werewolf society, as far as Sherlock had seen, was refreshingly straightforward in comparison to the whole human mess. 

For the most part, Lestrade trotted alongside. Occasionally he'd appear distracted, walk off for a few minutes to survey his territory. Observing cues as to where he had been was infuriatingly more difficult when Lestrade was on four legs, but this was a rare opportunity to analyze this side of the inspector. 

His gait was distinct from John's--mannerism, or the impact of the scar on John's shoulder, Sherlock was not certain. He lagged back from Sherlock, keeping his distance in a way that John never did in wolf form, the distance greater as they approached John's territory. There was an air of brusqueness about him, as if ferrying Sherlock to John was another thankless job, like booking petty thieves or bearing teeth at dealers. 

Sometimes, they'd step under a streetlight or pass a neon sign, and Sherlock would see him clearly. Far more silver around the muzzle, Sherlock noted, than when he'd seen the wolf last. 

Sherlock was not naive. He was not about to hold out an illogical hope that John would not be waiting on the street--indeed, John was likely to start a one-wolf scouting mission into Lestrade's territory. They may not share his intelligence, and their conventional human manners may be understandably compromised given the lunar phase, but Sherlock was certain these were two of the most urban (therefore, to Sherlock's mind, civilized) werewolves in England. There was no need to repeat the night's previous show of humiliating uncertainty.

When he finally spotted John, restlessly pacing the boundary, it was with an unsettling amount of emotion and ambivalence. There was something nearly instinctive in him--curious, he would need to research the impact of lycanthropic hormones on humans more thoroughly--which was driving him to run to John, to press his hands through the thick ruff on John's neck, to be surrounded by John's scent. 

Yet, rationally he ought to be wary. John had always been a pleasant enough wolf, and Sherlock personally had nothing to fear. Lestrade, who had been walking about London with another wolf's mate all night, on the other hand... 

Sherlock did not know what to expect of the two wolves. Lestrade was larger, stockier, and perhaps more familiar with the area. John was younger, likely better trained with fighting in this form--at least John was lucky enough to be English; the Americans were infamous for their archaic segregated wolf units--and far more impacted by animal emotion in this situation.

John and Lestrade were useful. He hoped no harm would come to either of them, knew both men had such overdeveloped guilt complexes regarding lycanthropy that any injury to one would probably drive the other to the nearest designated reserve. 

Hesitating, he attempted to calculate an escape route, a way to distract John should the wolf become overtly hostile, to anticipate the actions of both creatures. John seemed increasingly restless, as did Lestrade, lagging behind. Indeed, it was almost as if the wolves became more agitated when one hesitated. 

Sherlock stopped suddenly, making Lestrade bark behind him. 

One moment of idiocy was excusable. Two in one night was simply excessive. Fortunate, that werewolves only maintain dim sense-memories from their transformations. 

It was not a mistake he would make again. Transformed werewolves are creatures of instinct, attempting to rationalize a plan for their behaviours was about as useful as explaining the finer points of forensics to a dinosaur. If one was a member of a wolf's pack, it was best to act in the manner of a pack member. 

Instinctively. 

He strode quickly to John, knelt on the pavement, and let his coat get covered with light-coloured fur. The human olfactory system is not sophisticated enough to detect variances in werewolf scent. There was still something comforting about being back with John, about the way John rubbed his muzzle against the side of Sherlock's face, about the press of a wet nose on Sherlock's hands. 

Scratching behind John's ears--John claimed he enjoyed such attention, but Sherlock had also read the texts on werewolf anatomy and knew the area often contained a concentration of the wolf's scent--he spoke to the wolf. It was the sort of sentimental nonsense he would never typically prattle on about, but without human witnesses the display was somewhat permissible. Momentarily, he was even distracted to such a degree that he neglected that there was another non-human witness to the display. 

John, however, did not. Once the wolf was satisfied that Sherlock was intact, he pulled away and circled around behind Sherlock, sniffing the air. 

"John," Sherlock started, but the wolf was already halfway to Lestrade. 

The dark wolf had been sitting near the kerb, remained sitting as John padded up beside him. Sherlock could only watch; the wolves at least did not appear hostile. John approached closer, sniffed at Lestrade's muzzle, and--if Sherlock wasn't mistaken--licked him. Lestrade growled. Sherlock smiled. 

It was the sort of growl, he knew, that a wolf would make at a pup. John wasn't that much younger of a wolf, but he stretched out his forepaws, lowered his body. Playing the part before he barked once, ran back to Sherlock, and pressed his body against his mate. 

Wolves have non-vocal language, like humans. Sherlock knew this one well, the heavy weight of John leaning almost full-force against his legs. 

_Time to go home_ , it said. 

_You're rubbish at this pack stuff, and not a very smart wolf. But I'll show you the way._


End file.
